


Grounded

by startwithsparks



Series: MMOM 2013 [15]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With nothing else better to do, Stiles considers his relationship with Peter and blows off some tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounded

Stiles dropped down on his bed with a huff and a bounce, face-down in the tangle of blankets and pillows. There was a weird sort of restlessness that came with being grounded, even if he still had an internet connection and a phone at his fingertips. It didn't matter if he didn't _want_ to go anywhere, the fact that he _couldn't_  go anywhere made him feel like he was crawling out of his skin. There were things to do, bad guys to fight, and a sarcastic old werewolf threatening to crawl in his window like some kind of creepy prince charming. While he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea, the thought of his dad finding Peter in his room carried a lot more weight than if he walked in on Scott sitting in there playing video games. That didn't make him want it any less, it was just something he had to remind himself of every time he felt himself start to cave.

It wasn't easy, but his dad would say that nothing worth having was ever easy. He'd be horrified to know how Stiles was twisting that logic, but it worked well enough for now. All he had to do was get through the next two weeks until mid-term grades came out and he could show his dad that he was back to being a super-impressive C-average student, and he was off the leash. He almost envied Scott his job, his ability to get out of the house for a few hours a day, because all Stiles had was these four walls and himself for his company. Not that he couldn't think of plenty of things to do with that combination of elements.

He heaved a sigh and shoved himself over onto his back, kicking off his shoes and then toeing his socks off. His feet hung off the end of his bed, arms flailed askew from his body, and gaze set on the ceiling. There were still clusters of constellations up there from when he was a kid, though the glow-in-the-dark stickers had long since stopped working. He squeezed one eye shut, then the other, back to the first, and the other again, amusing himself with the subtle back and forth shift in positions for about thirty seconds before he got bored. He groped around the headboard, flipping through books and loose papers, disk sleeves, and cords to who-knew-what. It wasn't that nothing held his attention, just that his attention zapped through everything in about a minute.

He shoved the messy pile back up on his headboard and pushed himself to his elbows, staring at his backpack dropped haphazardly next to the desk. Just... sitting there. Taunting him with assignments he could put off for a couple more days and the promise of falling asleep in algebra again tomorrow. He rubbed the back of his neck and shoved himself up off the bed.

It wasn't like he was confined to _this_ room, he just couldn't leave the house without his dad or some other responsible - and that was a pretty key word in hindsight - adult. And the problem of being the sheriff's kid was that if anyone _did_ see him out, it'd get back to his dad in no time. So he wandered idly, grabbing a bright green ball off his bookshelf to bounce against the wall. After a while, he got a pretty good rhythm out of it: the ba-dum-thuh from floor to wall to hand became a steady heartbeat of boredom. For everything that he knew he _should_ be doing, he could think of two things he'd rather do instead - and that put him at a bit of an impasse. When every idea was better than homework, the difficult part was prioritizing his procrastination.

The next time he caught the ball, he thumped it back down on the shelf and dropped into his desk chair, swiveling around towards the laptop. He pried open the screen and clicked it on, still swinging his body back and forth while it loaded. For a while, he was just staring at himself in the dark reflection of the screen while the progress bar climbed - a look of teenage dishevelment, and a bruise creeping its way up from under his collar.

Stiles frowned, tugging at his shirt as if he could see the bruise. But before he got a look at it, his desktop flickered on and the reflection was gone. It was disappointing but he had something new to focus on now - something potentially a lot more interesting than whatever he was going to waste time on online. Not-so-mysterious bruises were way better than Facebook on any day. He swiveled around again and pushed himself across the room towards the closet, where he jerked open the door and cast a curious gaze on his reflection in the mirror inside. It wasn't a small bruise by any means, but it was mostly hidden by his clothes, and in a place that he could cast off as some sports-related injury should anyone get curious. It wasn't like Peter had a habit of gnawing on his neck or anything - he preferred the jutting hollows of his collarbone and the tender skin at the inside of his thighs and wrists.

He felt a shudder slide up his spine and did his best to suppress it, though his cheeks flushed warm with a blush instead. It never failed, all he had to do was think about the feel of Peter's teeth scraping against his wrists or the offer he'd growled months ago in a parking garage and he was _there_. He supposed that was one way to work through his boredom.

Stiles nudged the door closed with his foot and turned to put the back of his chair against the wall. From here he could prop his feet against the edge of the bed, one of his preferred positions, and drag his zipper down. The chair tipped back just enough for him to stretch out and shove his jeans down around his hips. It wasn't ideal, but it would do, at least for a quick job. If he couldn't have Peter, at the very least he could the thought of him. He let his eyes drift closed, hand sliding into place, and started to stroke, slowly at first, while he tried to draw up the feeling of sharp teeth chasing his pulse up the inside of his wrist.

His hips flexed slightly, the muscles in his thighs tight as he tried to keep himself propped against the bed without shoving the chair away from it. Splitting his attention helped more than it hindered, giving his brain one more thing to focus on so it didn't drift, so his body didn't get drawn out of much more satisfying stimulation.

Peter still offered him the bite from time to time, usually when his mouth was poised around Stiles' wrist or somewhere a lot more sensitive, and he could see it in his gaze that Peter wanted to clench down. Most of the time he wanted Peter to clench down too - he wanted to feel the slide of teeth into his flesh - but logic kicked in right in time and he _knew_ that someone there had to remain the voice of reason for the rest. Each time he denied him, but he still enjoyed the rush when Peter asked, and maybe that was why he kept doing it. It was like a game now, the threat of Peter doing something really dangerous paired with the knowledge that he never would; like being harnessed to a safe foundation while you dangled out over some endless cavern.

Somehow, even _that_ made Stiles twitch in his palm. He couldn't help himself, and he had no idea where this impulse came from (and he didn't really care), but Peter gave him something that he hadn't even known existed before. Now he couldn't get enough of it. At least this way he could safely think about taking that bite without putting himself in the dangerous position it would require. He'd already felt Peter's teeth tease his skin, breaking open thin slices of flesh with his nails, always so careful with him. But he didn't _want_ Peter to be careful, he wanted to feel teeth bearing down into flesh and muscle, tearing him open, smearing his skin in blood.

He let out another low moan, the chair squeaking under him as he arched. He didn't even try to hold back the sound of moans and whines as his hand worked along hard, heated flesh. He thought about Peter watching him, a voice in the back of his head telling him what to do, lips stained red and face smeared in his blood. He was open, exposed, completely willing to take any abuse that Peter wanted him to suffer. He wanted the taste of his own blood in Peter's mouth when he kissed him, mingled with the taste of cum and the sharp poison of that offer. He may never take it, but knowing it was there, knowing that Peter wanted to claim him so badly...

He caught himself right before he came, jerking up his shirt with his free hand to splatter against lightly tanned skin. It was abrupt and left him trying to catch his breath. His breath shuddered and his muscles all seemed to draw inward at once. He dropped his head back, slowly letting his legs fall as well, and groaned. This was as close to still as he got, those precious few moments when his body was sedated and he was content. All the energy had drained out of him and his muscles felt pleasantly spent, though there was still a sort of buzz that wrapped around him, holding him tight in that bliss... until his brain had to go and ruin it.

He knew he had to get up, get cleaned off, and there were _still_ things to do, though the temptation to crawl into bed was strong. Maybe with some of that pent-up energy expended, he could concentrate a little better (though he didn't count on it) and get something useful done. Maybe he'd make a sandwich and _then_ do something useful. Of course, there was also the perfectly good idea of making a sandwich, eating it, calling Peter, jerking off again, and _then_ getting something useful done just in time for his dad to get home, but he had at least another fifteen minutes to decide what he was going to do with that. If all else failed, he'd just flip a coin.


End file.
